


overindulgence

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Loneliness, M/M, Pining, Season/Series 04, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 19:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18857272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: “Youcanbe happy, Martin. I know you can. You just have to let yourself be.”“I…” He looked away. “Ican’t.”“Youcan.”Peter reached for his hand, and Martin didn’t pull away.





	overindulgence

**Author's Note:**

> it's stated in the tags but anyway this is unhealthy relationship stuff so be prewarned!

Martin was a veritable four-course meal chock full of emotions. Sadness, bitterness, longing, _loneliness._ He was a cocktail of all of the best of things, garnished with fear and further fueling the gaping hole in his heart left from the fact that no one could love him. Peter had felt it long before he had become Head of the Institute, long before Jon had slipped into his little coma. Oh, the coma _helped,_ make no mistake. As… disappointing as Jonathan’s condition was, it had further solidified Peter’s presence to Martin, and _that_ had been ideal.

Martin was oh so very lonely, and Peter thrived on his isolation.

So much so that he was not at all willing to lose him; not that he expected Martin to have a sudden surge of friends, or to ever feel like he would truly belong, but if there was one thing that Peter and Elias did share, it was the knack for preparation of the worst case scenario. Peter made a tiny plan, and he put that plan into motion.

 

It was late. Far past the time the rest of the archival staff had clocked out. The Institute above had ceased its daily activity, and the night had stilled beyond the exterior walls. It was peaceful, truly. There was nothing like a quiet night to bring out the sadness in someone. Especially when that person was still hunched over his desk, chewing marks into his pencil, working and overworking if only to distract himself from the man he loved, lying unconscious for months in a hospital bed a mere twenty-three minutes away.

Peter allowed himself to materialize into Martin’s realm, and smoothed the wrinkles out of his own suit. “Martin.”

 _“God–”_ Martin spun around, all weak glares and tired eyes. Such warm, hazel eyes, worn down by months and years of _life._ By pushing through with relentless cheer no matter the obstacle. The tired eyes of a valiant effort. Peter appreciated that. Effort. “I told you to stop doing that,” Martin muttered.

“Sorry. Old habit. Still learning.”

The pencil fell back to the desk. Martin leaned forward to put his face in his hands with a noncommittal grunt.

“You’re working late,” Peter continued, leaning over his shoulder. “When I put you to task, I didn’t mean to run yourself _quite_ so into the ground.”

“I like working.” Martin dropped his hands. “I _need_ to work.”

“I know you do.” The squeeze to the man’s arm was something he knew Martin wasn’t familiar with. He’d known, regardless, but the subtle tilt of broad shoulders and an aching body told him again. “Anything to keep your mind off your dear Archivist.”

The tension came back, full and tight beneath Peter’s hand. But only for a moment, before his shoulders slumped again. “… yeah,” Martin murmured. He was so forlorn. There was so much longing in his voice. It nearly made Peter shudder. “S–Sorry, I don’t mean… I don’t mean to keep rattling on about him, I know it’s been months–”

Peter squeezed Martin’s shoulder again. “You’re only worried, Martin. Although…” He drew out the syllables on his tongue. He knew _exactly_ how to play Martin Blackwood, at this juncture, and the trepidation in the man’s voice was evident when he echoed,

“Although…?”

“I think I’ve mentioned before the… unhealthy quality to this level of pining.”

Martin laughed weakly. “Well, I can’t turn it off now, can I? I… hah… yeah, sometimes, I wish…” He didn’t finish. He just shook his head, and stared at the desk.

“There _are_ people who can love you, Martin.”

Martin spluttered a laugh beneath his hand.

“Jonathan Sims need not apply,” Peter continued. “Trust me.”

“I _want_ him to apply,” Martin muttered, and then, louder, “God, sorry, this is _weird–”_

“Not so.” It was nothing all of them didn’t know, regardless. Martin was far less subtle with the extent of his emotions than he cared to believe, even now. “I only wanted you to know there are people able to fill the void. If The Archivist proves himself uninterested, there _are_ other people who can be your Jon.”

For the second time in a handful of moments, Martin went still again.

“W–”

“Your imagination can even sometimes be better than the real thing.”

“I… I, just…”

“There _are_ willing people,” Peter said, and tapped two fingers on his shoulder.

 _“… oh.”_ Martin sucked in a breath. “Oh, um, um. I– P–Peter, I don’t– I don’t think–”

And _there_ was the Martin of old, tongue tied and perpetually emotional. Peter quickly held up his hands, removing himself from his personal space. “That wasn’t a proposition, Martin. Merely… an offer.”

“Aren’t they– uhh–” Martin shook his head sharply, and began to gather his things. “Kind of thought they were the same thing, by definition…” He shoved his papers into his bag. “God. I should go. I should… I should go.”

“Martin–” Peter sighed. The perfect mask of a plan gone wrong. “You should, but I didn’t intend to make you _uncomfortable_ if you did wish to stay longer. _I_ can go.”

“No, uh…” Martin fumbled with the clasps on his bag. “No. I really need to get some sleep. And it’s… it’s…” He swallowed, bracing his hand on tabletop. “… thank you, Peter,” he mumbled, “really.”

That bit was _almost_ surprising, as Martin all but fled the archives afterwards.

Almost.

Peter smiled. Martin was _such_ an easy person to manipulate, and it was only about to get easier.

 

So his plan was put into motion, and the tiny, subtle questions of repeated _offers_ came easily when it was him and Martin sharing a space. All were turned down, more or less, but the part that _fueled_ Peter was the utter _yearning_ that came when Martin stammered through an excuse or a denial or statement that he “couldn’t do that to Jon.”

 _“You don’t_ have _to think about Jon,”_ Peter had said.

 _“Like I could think of anyone else,”_ Martin had replied mournfully.

The desire easily outstripped the uneasiness, and urged Peter to try again.

Again. _Again._

He chipped away at Martin’s will with every inquiry, and Peter cherished the weight of the many pieces nestled so snugly between his palms.

 

Maybe it was the shirt.

Dressing down wasn’t his usual modus operandi, but he’d had a _mess_ to clean up and the corporeal suit got tedious on the best of days. It wasn’t until later that he realized it was how Jon had used to dress: button down shirts and a tie pulled loose. His hair was probably tousled, too.

If he had known all it would take to guide Martin over the edge was emulating Jonathan Sims’s type of style or lack thereof, he would have gone blue jeans and sans jacket months ago. It wasn’t as if anyone asides Martin saw him, after all.

But then maybe it was more than that. It _had_ been a messy day.

Martin’s loneliness was nearly _tangible,_ and Peter found himself drifting to his new, erstwhile companion without real thought. He was like a treat far too delectable too ignore. Peter let his feet carry him through the halls, body buzzing with hunger and desire.

Martin only laughed when Peter spoke.

“You should let yourself be happy, Martin.”

“Can’t.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I…”

“You should _try,_ at the very least.”

“I–” Martin finally raised his head from his hands, and just… stopped, looking at Peter. Looking him up and then down, and up again.

Peter had to glance at himself to realize it was possibly the outfit. “Oh. Busy day.” But he was confident enough in that pause to take it for his own, stealing it away as he went to crouch in front of Martin. “You _can_ be happy, Martin. I know you can. You just have to let yourself be.”

“I…” He looked away. “I _can’t.”_

“You _can.”_ Peter reached for his hand, and Martin didn’t pull away. Touching him was like touching _ice._ So cold and isolated, and so very tantalizingly beautiful. “It’s okay to ask for help.”

“I…”

“Let me _help_ you.” He raised Martin’s hand, settling it along his own jaw. “I promise I can kiss you just as well as Jon can.”

Martin’s eyes tightened, and for a moment– just one– Peter thought he might pull away again.

“Let me take your loneliness, Martin. Please. You deserve to be happy, too.”

The short, huffed breath of laughter was almost as sudden as Martin gripping either side of his face between his hands and barrelling in to kiss him.

It was desperate, and messy, and tasted like chapstick and earl grey and tears. It tasted like abandonment, and Peter smiled warmly against Martin’s lips.

 

Sex was a tricky thing.

At its core, it was the very opposite of what he enjoyed. It was the joining of two people for something that was, for someone like Martin, _very much a big deal._ Yes, casual flings did exist, but while they didn’t have the usual entrapments of a _relationship,_ Martin was still finding _something_ between himself and Peter.

Namely, Jon.

Martin was finding Jon, the one in his head, pressing into Peter’s warmth and practice like he was the air he needed to breathe. On some level, it was probably true. Martin did live and breathe their Archivist. Hanging on to Peter’s hand and arms and hips, increasingly dominant for only the fact that he desperately did not want to lose his Jon. The one in his head. _Peter._

It was a fun game, pretending to be The Archivist. He supposed that it didn’t help that he hadn’t _known_ Jon well at all, but he could gauge and guess and accommodate. He kissed a bit more uncertainly. Martin relished in the awkwardness of it, the awkwardness of how he imagined he and Jon working together in a romantic way. He touched hesitantly, testing, asking silent questions with his fingers and his eyes, and the first time Martin called him _Jon–_ three makeout sessions in– it was hardly a surprise.

But sex was tricky.

Peter had no use for it, and didn’t particularly like it. And errant _fucking,_ so went the colloquial term, would defeat the emotional nature of the moment when it did happen. He needed to pay just enough attention to Martin to make the man be consumed with emotions and the need for that _connection._ So, _Peter_ stopped _Martin,_ the first three times. He kept his cards close to his chest, and savored the taste of tears on Martin’s cheeks when he told him ‘not yet.’

On the fourth, he put in as much clinical detachment as he would have expected from Jon, and slept with the man.

The release of emotions was positively sinful. Peter had met a lot of lonely people, but the negativity that came awash during the sex… he could practically _feel_ it vibrating beneath Martin’s skin. It was the delicious noise Martin made on the cusp of orgasm, something between a bone-shaking sob and Jonathan’s name, and the way he let himself go so completely through it all, there on the floor in Peter’s office, as the tension briefly left him.

Martin cried through it all, and Peter had never felt more alive.

 

By the time Jon eventually woke up, Peter was secure enough in his position with Martin that he didn’t bother to worry about his little assistant. After six months, Martin was so very thoroughly _his_ that it was fun to watch Jon gawk after his number one admirer with blatant confusion and worry on his face. The tiny part of Peter that still bought in to human emotion found a little perverse pleasure in that, too; Jon, the real Jon, didn’t deserve Martin’s friendship any more than Martin deserved his _inattention._ Just deserts, and all.

Now, it wasn’t as though Martin didn’t _miss_ Jon. The real one. He did. And he was happy that he was awake, and alive, and back to his usual, whatever that counted for, these days. And that may have worried Peter, were it not for the complicated web he’d been weaving the past few months.

See, Peter was playing the part of Jon for Martin. Had been playing the part of Jon for Martin, up to the point where he’d slip up in the Institute and call Peter _Jon_ when talking about him to the others. He’d only ever hear his real name when Martin was being professional, and even that line had been blurring, as of late. Peter was filling a role.

So when Jon, the real one, came back into the picture, the _real_ Jon and _Martin’s_ Jon overlapped, and Martin’s guilt was so strong Peter occasionally had to force himself to stay _sat_ in his office and not interact with his assistant until he was able to _calm down_ himself. The bad feelings oozing from Martin were just… truly exciting in a way Peter hadn’t felt before.

When the real Jon came back, Martin was effectively trapped between the man he _did_ love and the man he was _allowed_ to love, and the mental turmoil was no longer a simple meal, but more like a… how to put it… an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Peter was already satiated, and the feast had barely begun.

**Author's Note:**

> HA /nervously sweats  
> I feel a bit dirty after writing this one lmaooo my impression of Peter probably isn't spot on, but my first impression led me here and I had to write it


End file.
